Han’s neck prickled. Say what you wanted about the Gray Wolf queens, they had a magical connection to the Spirit Mountains. He hoped it would make his job easier.
He glanced at Raisa, and she nodded, lifting her chin, green eyes wide and unblinking. Fearless.
“Careful you keep your seat,” Han cautioned her, wishing he could issue a clearer warning. “I don’t know how the ponies will react to all this.”
She nodded again, gripping her reins, lips pressed tightly together.
All right, then. Han extended his free hand toward her, igniting the linkages he’d already established. They both began to glow, kindling brighter and brighter until they shone like two stars fallen to earth. Raisa extended her hands, and they trailed flame in a wide arc, like wings. Their ponies, too, flickered with brilliant flame, resembling the horses the sun god was said to drive across the sky.
The phantasm surrounding them grew, expanding so that they appeared to be twice their actual size. At the very least, Han thought, it would make them tricky targets if the magical barriers failed.
Then the wolves came—terrible and wonderful, with flaming eyes and razor-sharp teeth and great ruffs of hair about their massive shoulders. They were wolves the size of horses, with teeth the size of belt daggers.
The wolves were real—to Han’s eyes, at least. They’d been appearing to him ever since he’d joined himself to Raisa in his desperate attempt to heal her. Han had only wrapped glamours about them—increasing their size, enhancing their appearance, and making them visible to everyone.
Now they resembled the monstrous beasts from Mam’s scare-stories—the hellhounds that the Breaker would ride at the end of days.
Thirty-two wolves preceded them over the hill, descending toward the crowd on the mountainside. Nearly two score Gray Wolf queens since Hanalea.
When Han and Raisa crested the hill, light spilled down the mountainside ahead of them, dispelling the cloud shadow.
We must look like a sunrise, Han thought. A new day. He smiled to himself. He’d given himself a visible role in this drama on purpose. Though it would make him a target, it was time people started seeing him differently.
He was making show, along with Raisa.
Heads turned as they walked their horses down the mountain, side by side. The Demonai warriors were farthest upslope, and they were watching for them. The clanfolk turned and faced up the mountain, shading their eyes against the glare.
The sound of their voices washed over Han. “The wolf queens come to greet their sister Marianna!” they cried, as planned. “Here come the Gray Wolf queens!”
The Demonai drew off to either side, leaving a wide path down through the middle. They dropped to their knees as the wolves passed through.
By now Han was close enough to see the reaction among the bluebloods. Atop the dais he was pleased to see Speaker Jemson in his fancy Temple Day robes. Jemson squinted up at them, his forehead crinkled, his expression faintly perplexed.
The platform was thick with wizards—Han recognized the High Wizard, Gavan Bayar, and Micah and Fiona, too, along with a half dozen others.
Lord Bayar squinted at them, his free arm slung over his eyes. It seemed he couldn’t tell who they were, blinded as he was by Han’s brilliant sending.
All three Bayars positioned themselves between Han’s fetch and the dignitaries on the stage. They kept their hands on their amulets as if they wanted to use them but couldn’t figure out what spell to cast.
A bulky sword-dangler in an elaborate Highlander uniform laden with military glitterbits leaned over to speak to Lord Bayar. Bayar shook his head, scowling, without taking his eyes off Han and Raisa.
Behind them, Averill Lightfoot Demonai, the queen’s consort and Raisa’s father, stood next to a pretty blond girlie with wide blue eyes. Lightfoot rested a reassuring hand on her shoulder, or maybe it was to keep her in her seat. Tall and slender, she wore diamonds at her throat and wrists and a kind of baby crown on her head.
She didn’t look at all like Raisa, but Han guessed she must be the younger sister, Princess Mellony.
She was impressed by his sending, at least. She looked scared to death.
The bluejackets had formed up, swords drawn, making a fragile barrier in front of the dais. They had starch, Han thought, confronting wolves that looked like they could swallow them whole, two at a time.
The wolves did not attack, however. They lined up in front of the bluejackets, then sat on their haunches, exposing their great teeth.
All was silent for a long moment, save the snap of the banners in the wind. Even the crowd on the lower slopes had gone absolutely quiet, as if holding its breath.
“Who are you?” Lord Bayar demanded. “How dare you disrupt our memorial for Queen Marianna with a conjure-piece?”
Raisa replied in a high, clear voice, “Do you not know me, Lord Bayar?”
Han’s eyes were on the Princess Mellony as Raisa spoke. Mellony flinched and went ashen at the sound of Raisa’s voice. Averill leaned down and spoke into her ear.
A tall, sturdy woman with a long gray braid pushed forward to stand behind the Princess Mellony, resting her hands on her shoulders. Tears streamed down the woman’s face. “Sweet Sainted Lady!” she called in a carrying voice, almost as if she’d been coached. “It’s the Princess Raisa home again! Long live the Gray Wolf line.”
“While some may be fooled by a wizard’s fetch, I am not,” Lord Bayar said, raising his voice as if to drown out the woman. “Though it is a pretty piece of conjury, it is in poor taste. It has only frightened those who would honor our late queen. Please identify yourself, or leave us in peace. If you do not comply, I don’t care who you are, I will have you before the council.”
“Lord Bayar,” Raisa said. “I am Raisa ana’Marianna, the heir to the Gray Wolf throne, here to mourn my mother. Not even a wizard with a heart of stone would deny me that.”
With that, Han allowed the brilliance that surrounded them to die to a faint glow. At the same time, he directed more power into his magical shields, glad he’d overloaded his amulet in the past few days.
A murmur ran through the crowd like wind through aspens.
Han saw a flicker of movement on his right side. It was Dancer moving up along the side of the dais, eyes riveted on the High Wizard, reinforcing the barriers from the other direction, ready to act if needed. No one but Han seemed to notice him; Dancer was wrapped in a glamour, and they were all fixed on the apparition before them.
Micah stood rigid, his eyes fixed on Raisa as if he’d seen a ghost. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, as if she might disappear in the interval.
Fiona’s pale eyes fastened on Han, raking over him like a steel-toothed comb.
Lord Bayar had a rum street face, Han had to admit. When his black eyes lit on Han, they tightened a bit, the only sign that the High Wizard recognized him. Otherwise his expression displayed only disdain and impatience.
“Do you really expect us to believe that this is the princess heir?” The High Wizard shook his head as if he couldn’t fathom that Han would make such a low play. He turned back toward Mellony, inclining his head. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. It is a cruel trick, to arouse your hopes like this. With sorcery, it is easy to make one thing look like another. This woman is probably just a glamoured-up street doxy.”
With that, the blood left Raisa’s face, leaving two spots of furious color on her cheeks.
“Lord Bayar!” she said, her voice as clear and frozen as lake ice in January, as carrying as temple bells. “Perhaps you would like me to tell everyone why I had to leave the Fells against my will.”
Micah twitched, his complexion turning from marble to porcelain. The crowd on the slopes below murmured and shifted.
Bayar seemed to prefer to focus on Han. The High Wizard extended his hand toward Han, who forced himself not to flinch away. “Madam, you are judged by the company you keep. This boy is Cuffs Alister, a common thief.”
At tha
t, another murmur rolled through the crowds downslope from the pavilions. “Alister! That’s Cuffs Alister!”
“That’s Cuffs Alister?” the sword-dangling general blurted, seeming to echo the crowd. “But…but look at him! He’s a wizard.”
“A common thief,” Lord Bayar repeated through gritted teeth, “who has somehow learned sorcery. We believe he’s entered into an unholy alliance with demons who require blood sacrifice in payment. It may be that he’s also acquired illegal magical tools from his allies among the copperheads.”
The High Wizard seemed to grow taller, gaining in brilliance as if competing with Han. He kept his face toward Han and Raisa, but his audience was the bluebloods behind him.
“As some of you already know, last summer Alister was implicated in a series of brutal street murders in Southbridge, done by magical means,” Bayar said. “When I confronted him, he attempted to assassinate me. He fled the country when Queen Marianna put a price on his head. Now he’s returned, apparently meaning to take advantage of this time of transition to destroy us.” He gestured toward the line of bluejackets in front of the stage. “Corporal Fallon!” he said to a swarthy man with sharp features and a blue-black shadow of beard. “Seize him!”
Han wasn’t sure what the High Wizard hoped for. Perhaps he thought Han might respond with a magical attack, and in the confusion the Bayars would have the chance to kill both him and Raisa.
Understandably, Corporal Fallon did not rush forward. He looked from Bayar to Han, and took one reluctant step.
Raisa edged her pony in front of Han’s and extended her hand, palm out. “Hold, Corporal Fallon, if you are, as you claim to be, the sworn defender of the Gray Wolf line.”
Fearless, Han thought in grudging admiration.
Corporal Fallon held, his eyes shifting from Raisa to Han, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He licked his lips and swallowed hard.
“Han Alister saved my life, Lord Bayar,” Raisa said. “Like it or not, he is the reason I stand before you today. I owe him a debt of gratitude, not a berth in gaol. Therefore I have issued him an unconditional pardon. Anyone who lays hands on him will answer to me.”
Han looked Lord Bayar in the eyes, thinking, Here’s yet another reason for the High Wizard to howl after my blood.
Bayar gazed at Han and Raisa, his hand on his amulet, eyes narrowed as if judging the strength of the barrier Han had erected.
Han sat straight in his saddle, fingering his own amulet, chin cocked up, looking down his nose in a way that unmistakably said, Bring it on, Bayar. But you’d better kill me with your first shot.
Something primal inside Han craved that attack, lusted for the chance to finish it now, one way or the other.
Patience, Alister, he thought. Never attack unless you are in a position to win.
Han glanced at Fiona and Micah standing just behind their father. Micah’s eyes were still locked on Raisa. Fiona’s, on the other hand, were fixed on Han, her brows drawn together in appraisal, biting her lower lip.
Han’s attention was drawn to ground level as a score of bluejackets led by Amon Byrne pushed into the space between Han and Raisa and the guards that lined the stage. They faced the High Wizard, swords drawn. Some faces were familiar to Han from Oden’s Ford—Garret Fry and Mick Bricker, Talia Abbott and Pearlie Greenholt. The Demonai warriors moved up on either side of them, longbows at the ready, protecting their flanks.
“Kneel before the princess heir,” Lord Averill said in a loud deep voice. “And thank the Maker she has returned to us.” Averill dropped to one knee, bowing his head, followed by the gray-haired woman who had spoken out.
Byrne’s bluejackets fell to their knees. The Demonai dipped sideways in an almost comical fashion, acknowledging the princess while keeping their eyes and weapons trained on the wizards on the stage.
Jinxes are slower than arrows, Han thought.
Speaker Jemson went down, his robes billowing around him. Elena knelt beside her chair. Dancer knelt at the edge of the pavilion, keeping his head up, his hand on his amulet, and his eyes fixed on the Bayars. But no one else.
They hung there like that for a long moment, as if balanced on the honed edge of a sword. And then it began, from downslope, a rhythmic rumble of voices that grew and spread into a deafening roar.
“Rai-sa! Rai-sa! Rai-sa!” There were even some shouts of “Al-is-ter!”
Han looked beyond the pavilions with their brilliant banners, beyond the queen’s bier and the bluebloods on the platform to see the crowds of commoners seem to ripple as they fell to their knees.
Han had expected it, but it was still good to see and hear. Cat Tyburn had done her work well.
And slowly, dramatically, like leaves falling from a tree, the others followed suit. First, the Princess Mellony, dropping to her knees beside her father. Then some other bluebloods Han didn’t recognize, including the badged-up general. And after that, the bluejackets that protected the dais. Including Mason Fallon.
Still no wizards. They huddled in an unhappy group, like vultures evicted from a warm carcass.
And then Micah Bayar swept back his cloak and dropped to his knees, bowing his head, his amulet swinging forward. Fiona glared down at him like she wanted to stomp on him.
Ho, Han thought. Micah breaks with his family? That’s interesting.
Three other wizards went down. Then the Mander brothers and a middle-aged russet-headed plump wizard who must have been their mother. And Master Gryphon.
Master Gryphon?
Han stared. His former teacher Gryphon stood between two older wizards, an elegantly dressed man and woman with long aristocratic noses and thin unhappy mouths. As Han watched, Gryphon swung his canes aside, and the older couple each took an arm and lowered him to the stage. They knelt as well, on either side of him, heads bowed, but Gryphon stared up at Han, a look of ferocious curiosity on his face.
Questions ricocheted through Han’s mind.
Why would Gryphon be here, when the spring term had already begun?
Had all the students and faculty at Oden’s Ford ditched school in favor of politics?
Han forced his eyes elsewhere. Fiona was down now too, leaving only Lord Bayar standing. The High Wizard looked about, shook his head, and smiled his crocodile smile.
“By the Maker’s grace,” he said softly, studying Raisa’s face as if he were finally ready to be persuaded. “Is it really you, Your Highness?”
“It seems that I’ve managed to convince everyone in the queendom but you, Lord Bayar,” Raisa said dryly, looking out over the crowd.
Reignited, it roared, “Rai-sa!” and “Briar Rose!” and “Alister!” and what sounded like “Death to Bayar!” though it was comingled and hard to sort out.
And with that, the High Wizard sank gracefully to his knees. The bloody-handed, heartless bastard actually had tears in his eyes. “Forgive the cynic in me, Your Highness. We have already lost our beloved Marianna. Given this season of tragedy, I had convinced myself that you must be dead as well.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t bear to even hope that it was you.”
Which was likely true enough.
The crowd roared its approval, the sound breaking over them like waves on a beach.
Raisa stood in her stirrups as if to make herself as tall as possible. Because she was on horseback and slightly upslope from those on the stage, she could speak over their heads to the multitudes beyond. Her armor glittered in the sun, and her cloak fluttered and snapped in the wind.
She lifted both hands, palms up. “Rise!” she said in that carrying voice that was becoming familiar. “Please make yourselves comfortable. It is so good to be home. I have missed these mountains and the people who dwell here—uplanders and Valefolk, the Spirit clans and charmcasters.”
She paused for a long moment. “I came home because I wanted to see my mother’s face and hear her voice again. Now that will never happen.
“There are many difficult questions to be asked and answered in the coming
days—many decisions to be made.” Raisa’s gaze rested on the assemblage on the dais. “But today I have come, and the ancient queens have come”—she waved at the circle of mammoth wolves—“to honor my mother, Queen Marianna. She is the link in an unbroken line that goes back to the warrior queen, Hanalea, who healed the Breaking and saved the world. Such links are not lightly broken. The deaths of queens stir the beasts that lie beneath the dirt. They stir questions in all of us, about what has been and what is to be.”
Han listened in amazement as Raisa spoke on. Does she carry those kinds of speeches around inside her all the time? he wondered. Just in case? Or do they just hatch out whenever they’re needed?
However she did it, it was something he needed to learn.
The rest of that afternoon passed in a smear of images. Han dismounted and helped Raisa down from her horse under the glare of the Bayars. He and Amon Byrne mounted the steps to the dais together, just behind Raisa. They stood to either side as Raisa embraced her sister Mellony and Averill Demonai and the woman with the long gray braid. She greeted the others more formally, but had a smile and a word for each—even Lord Bayar, whom she greeted with a rum street face.
The Demonai still stood to either side of the dais, their longbows held loosely in their hands, arrows nocked but pointed at the ground, their eyes fixed on the wizards on the stage. It was less a treaty than a standoff.
Under Jemson’s direction, Raisa spoke a prayer over the dead queen, commending her to her rest in the Spirit Mountains. She greeted her ancestors, the Gray Wolf queens, naming them from memory. She asked them—and her mother—to watch over her and guide her as she led her people forward.
That makes no sense, asking for guidance from Queen Marianna, Han thought. She’s made a mess of things.
The speaker touched on memories of Marianna as a young girl—her talent for dancing, her skill on the basilka and harpsichord, her love of the hunt. She had been widely hailed as the most beautiful and eligible princess in the Seven Realms, attracting a relentless parade of suitors vying for her hand. People cheered her wherever she went—she was the glittering centerpiece of a fairy tale they all could believe in.
The Gray Wolf Throne Page 28